


A Heart's a Heavy Burden

by LittleBuddy



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Eventual Smut, House plays piano for Wilson, Wilson stitches House up, a little angsty, medical foreplay, wilson is a sap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24704119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBuddy/pseuds/LittleBuddy
Summary: Taste. Smell. Touch. Hear. See. A study of the five senses as seen in the relationship between Wilson and House... plus one. Eventual relationship.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 102





	1. Hearing

Nightmares were fascinating if you were on the right side of them – sometimes, in the light of day, when logic could be imposed upon the dream that seemed so terrifying before, they could almost be amusing. But on the wrong side?

He hadn’t slept well in over a week. He’d left milk out to spoil and missed an appointment. Three AM Tuesday saw him startling awake, face wet with tears, shirt sticking to his chest with sweat. He’d gotten up and taken a long shower, made coffee, and read a book until it was an acceptable hour to go to work.

“Good morning, Dr. Wilson.” Cameron greeted him in passing. She looked tired, but good – pleased.

“I guess he figured it out, then?” 

“Aquagenic urticaria.” 

Wilson squinted. “A... water allergy?”

“House joked about it to begin with, but...” Cameron shrugged. Wilson shook his head.

“Right again.”

Chase called for Cameron down the hall. She nodded at Wilson and took her leave. Wilson made his way into his office, setting down his briefcase and stretching his back out, reveling in the sunlight streaming through the window. It promised to be a beautiful day – the kind of day runners loved. Briefly he considered an evening run, but scoffed at the thought. Right. As it was, at the end of the day he hardly had the energy to put up a façade for House. 

That was another issue. He knew his housemate knew something was up, but between House’s patient and the cancer patient Wilson had been with every day, they hadn’t seen much of each other – that is, Wilson saw the evidence of House in every infuriating prank he’d been subjected to, but besides that, he’d managed to avoid the diagnostician. It wasn’t that he particularly cared if House knew about the nightmares, but at the same time, James Wilson knew Gregory House. He could just see the direction the prank war would take if House knew he was having recurring nightmares. The mental image of House buying clown masks and fake blood entered Wilson’s mind briefly and he grimaced, shaking the thought away. No indeed, that wasn’t a can of worms he wanted to open.

A few hours of paperwork later, his door opened.

“You didn’t eat breakfast.”

Wilson frowned, not looking up. “Are you worrying about me?”

“No. I was just hungry. You usually leave some.” House clicked his tongue. “Then again, maybe you ate when you woke yourself up last night.” There was more to that comment than just a statement, and Wilson glanced up at his friend. He had hoped he hadn’t disturbed House when he’d gotten up that morning, doing everything at mouse volume in an effort to appease the Noise Police asleep in the next room. Apparently it hadn’t mattered. House leaned on his cane with his leg cocked out, eyebrows up questioningly.

“What do you need, House?” 

House furrowed his brow, cocking his head to the side. “Well, a long legged babe with dark eyes and a daddy complex would be a good start.”

“Sorry, fresh out of those,” Wilson said. He set his pen down, rubbing at his eyes. Conscious of the studying look House was giving him, he straightened up and swallowed the urge to yawn.

“That’s not surprising. You don’t have great luck with the good-looking ones.” House sighed. “I guess I could settle for breakfast with a colleague.” He gave Wilson the up-down. “You’ve got the dark eyes, but...” he leaned down and placed his elbows on Wilson’s desk, inserting himself into the oncologist’s space. Wilson leaned back in his seat, retreating from the invasion. “How do you feel about your father?”

Wilson threw his hands up. “Fine. Let’s go.”

House straightened up, pumping his fist triumphantly. He opened the office door, holding it for Wilson. They made their way out into the hallway, heading for the elevator and then the cafeteria, where he would no doubt pay for both of their breakfasts and still end up sharing his food with House.

The elevator opened, and they stepped on with the group going down. The doors shut and they started moving. House glanced at Wilson, smirking. He leaned in, intoning in a whisper loud enough for everyone to hear:

“I knew there was a reason you keep bringing your dad’s name up while we’re having sex.”

\----

Seven office visits, one surgery assist, and two skipped meals later, (where was House when Wilson actually wanted someone to badger him about food?) Wilson strode down the hall to the patient rooms to see the girl he’d dubbed Little Bear. He spent the rest of his evening with Lyric and her older sister, waiting. That’s all they could do at this point, and he figured nobody should have to be alone while waiting on their sibling to die. Wilson trudged in the door of House’s apartment that night with the last bit of energy he had, dropping his things on the floor and settling onto the couch.

House glanced up from the piano where he sat, fingers dancing calmly across the keys in a practiced, easy manner. “I made dinner.”

Wilson studied him. “You did?”

House nodded, transitioning into a piece that Wilson thought was vaguely familiar. He waited for the punch line.

“Well... What is it?”

House looked up at him, smiled. “What was it, you mean. A tv dinner. There isn’t any left.”

Wilson made a noise somewhere between a huff and a laugh, and turned vertical, propping his head on the pillow he’d spent so little time actually sleeping on. 

“Is that... Arctic Monkeys?”

“Yep. Mad Sounds.”

Wilson sank into the couch, the piano notes rose into the air, and he felt himself drifting off. Willing to take whatever he could in the rest department, he closed his eyes, relishing in the feeling of sleep coming after him. Just so long as House kept playing, he’d be fine. There was a momentary break, the bench shifting. Wilson kept his eyes closed, clinging to sleep. Ice clinked in a cup before it was set back down. The pause was short lived – the piano bench creaked, and House resumed playing. 

Wilson wasn’t aware of anything after the third time through “The Girl from Ipanema.”

\----

Wilson woke the next morning from a sleep so deep he wasn’t sure what day it was or, momentarily, where he was. Once he got his bearings, he took stock of himself. His shoes were off, and... when had he grabbed a blanket?

Wilson glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock.

He’d slept through the night.

\----

That evening, he returned home after House, unsure what to expect. He hadn’t seen the diagnostician all day. Wilson had called him as he left the hospital to see if House had eaten anything yet. When Wilson entered the apartment, House was exactly where he had been the night before. The only difference was the blanket was already on the couch, and House’s drink was within reach of the piano.

“Hey,” Wilson said. House glanced up at him. Wilson held out a take out box. “I.. made dinner.”

House took the box, popping the lid. “You sprang for the good stuff,” he said. Wilson shrugged, making his way into the kitchen to grab forks. They ate at the counter. Wilson finished first, putting his leftover food in the fridge. As he brushed his teeth, a quiet tune started up. The piano again. Wilson changed, plugged his phone in by the couch, and crawled into his makeshift bed.

“My Foolish Heart. Bill Evans. In case you want to make me a mixtape as a romantic gesture later.”

Wilson grinned from the couch. “Goodnight, House.”

\----

For the next few nights, their evenings looked the exact same. The only thing that changed were the songs. Wilson started glancing at the sheet music before lying down, and if there wasn’t any, he asked. Moon River. One Summer’s Day, which House informed him was from an anime that had been playing in the children’s room in the oncology wing one day. Ray’s Blues, Georgia on my Mind and something Wilson couldn’t pronounce by Erik Satie. Carolina in my Mind on the same night as Clair De Lune. Canon In D followed by jazz improvisation.

Then, Lyric passed. Wilson was late – one AM late – getting in. When he opened the apartment door, the lights were shut off, living room dark. He sighed. He’d known better than to expect House to wait up for him. He’d texted that he’d be late and not to stay up. They hadn’t discussed the piano playing or the nightmares, or the lack thereof. He knew House knew. House knew he knew. Why say anything when the unprompted piano playing and the takeout dinners said it for them?

Wilson flicked the lamp on by the couch and almost jumped. House blinked awake, making eye contact with Wilson. He sighed, patted the couch and closed his eyes again. Wilson sat down next to him, untied his shoes and kicked them off. He expected a joke about stinky feet or something more lewd.

“Do you want me to play?”

House’s voice was heavy with sleep. The diagnostician cocked his head toward Wilson. The oncologist felt his stomach clench. He wanted a lot of things. He wanted to not care so much. Wanted to see better things happen to good kids. Wanted to not be so readable, the ability to be colder, more stoic. That being said, in that moment, he knew the difference between what he wanted and what he needed. He met House’s eyes, hoping he’d see the answer.

House stood. The waistband of his striped pajama pants clung to narrow hips. His bare feet were noiseless as he padded across the room and took his seat at the piano. A familiar, sad tune. As Tears Go By. Fitting. 

“If I have to tell you who this one is, I’ll have to take your charm off my friendship bracelet.” 

The oncologist smirked and swiped at the tears on his cheeks, settling down and pulling his feet up onto the couch. The spot where House had been sitting was still warm. Wilson rested his chin on the back of the couch and watched House’s shoulder muscles moving under his tee shirt as his hands moved across the keys. In that moment, Wilson made a decision. Sleep could wait. He had music to watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs listed here (in order of appearance) are:
> 
> "Mad Sounds" - Arctic Monkeys  
> "The Girl From Ipanema" - piano cover by Claudio Lanz  
> "My Foolish Heart" - Bill Evans  
> "Moon River" - by Henry Mancini, Mercuzio arrangement for piano  
> "One Summer's Day" - Joe Hisaishi (from the Ghibli movie Spirited Away)  
> "Ray's Blues" - Dave Grusin  
> "Georgia on my Mind" - Ray Charles  
> "Gymnopedie No. 1" - Erik Satie  
> "Carolina in my Mind" - James Taylor  
> "Clair De Lune" - Claude Debussy  
> "Canon in D" - Johann Pachelbel  
> "As Tears Go By" - The Rolling Stones, piano cover by Evgeny Alexeev. You can find this on youtube, and if you appreciate good music, piano, the Rolling Stones or any combination, I suggest giving it a listen. It's beautiful.


	2. Touching

Wilson sat at the desk in his office, aware that he was getting nothing done and lacking all motivation to do anything about it. Today’s date on the calendar was circled in purple and marked with a giant “!”. She’d sat on his desk and flipped to the day. “We’ll have wild sex to celebrate,” she said.

He’d laughed. “Do we have to wait until then?”

A sobering reminder of the birthday he wouldn’t be celebrating.

He still saw her, sometimes. House had called him on his inability to move on from even the little details, of course. Wilson left her soap in its corner of the shower, unwilling to throw it out. He used it, but only once; he’d wanted to feel close to her, even if temporarily. Memories came to his mind, Amber, sliding into bed beside him, nestling against his shoulder. Him, cooking breakfast, making coffee, singing to himself. Amber coming out of the bathroom, freshly showered and wrapped in a towel. She’d kissed him, he buried his face in her wet hair, and they let the pancakes burn. He’d been so overwhelmed by the memories that he’d slid down the shower wall and sat, silent and stricken, until the water ran cold.

Worse than seeing her was when Wilson saw both of them. He’d stopped eating out for a while after she’d died, unnerved by the couples at the restaurants that reminded him so much of dinners himself and Amber. Couples enjoying dinner, couples walking hand in hand, couples shopping, arguing. He thought moving would help, but it didn’t. Turned out, it never quite went away. Everything reminded him of something they’d done together, and now that he’d had time to adjust to the idea, that was okay. Wilson had come to terms with it, mostly. Dragging House to his father’s funeral had been a game changer, bringing him back around to people and giving him hope. 

Glancing at his watch, Wilson sighed and rose slowly. He had a 12:15 appointment he was looking forward to - delivering good news to a little boy’s anxious parents –so an early lunch was in order.

On his way down the hall, he stopped at House’s office. The diagnostician had his back to the door, seemingly unaware of Wilson’s entrance. Thirteen perched on the desk precariously, Taub at her elbow. She raised her arms and let them fall in exasperation.

“... the patient’s not going to feel any different now or tomorrow! It’s really important to her husband that their kids get to see her.”

House made a face. “Lying about a diagnosis is fine as long as you’re doing it honestly.”

Thirteen opened her mouth - assumedly to question the validity of that comment - but House continued, cutting her off.

“The fact is that by pretending you don’t know for certain, you’re not just lying, you’re handing out an expensive sample of high quality cocaine-assurance. If the husband feels there’s hope, he’s going to keep looking for it. That’s the price. He’s going to drag the people around him into it. The kids show up, they say ‘Is mommy going to be okay?’ and the answer is no, mommy is not going to be okay, but that’s not what he’ll tell them.”

Taub shrugged. “He’s right.”

Thirteen glared at him, then at House. 

“You’re just bored. Admit it. You had this figured so early on, now that you know you’re right, you’re just ready to be done so that you can go back to harassing Cuddy – “

“No!” House punctuated the word with a slam of his cane. “I’m done watching people keep others alive for the sake of themselves. This isn’t Hospice, in case that fact has eluded you.”

Wilson felt himself visibly flinch. The others seemed to notice him for the first time. He made eye contact with Thirteen and held it for a moment before he broke away, leaving the looks of pity in the office behind him as he retreated. The noise of the hospital seemed to carry on without him, his pulse drumming in his ears. The tap-tap-tap of the cane behind him went ignored until – 

“Wilson.”

The oncologist in question came to a halt just outside the door of his own office. He felt his jaw clinching and consciously relaxed, breathing deeply in an effort to calm himself. Wilson was torn between grief and anger, suddenly unsure where the line for one stopped and the other started. Grief was just wet anger anyway, he thought, and who said he had to decide on one?

Wilson rounded on his friend, who’d made it within arms distance. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words that came to mind were sharp - sharp enough that, if he let them out, they’d cut him, too. Then he’d be at odds with the only person he really had left, and hurting worse. He closed his mouth, shrugged, and found a spot on the floor to focus on. When he spoke, his voice sounded foreign, soft and questioning.

“Is that how you really felt? That holding on to Amber was selfish?” 

House cocked an eyebrow at him. “Narcissism fits me better. Stop thinking it was about you.”

“But it wasn’t not about me. Because that was me, not long ago.”

“We were still figuring it out. You were giving her more time until we knew it had run out for certain.”

“But you didn’t want to,” Wilson said. His voice faltered, betraying his doubt in the statement. House raised an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah, I forgot the normal reaction to brain surgery is excitement.” He laughed. “Stupid me. Next time you ask I’ll remember to wet my pants with glee.”

Wilson shook his head. “No, I value what you did, but...” He wanted to tell House I just don’t want you to resent me for asking you to do something you thought was selfish the whole time. Instead, Wilson turned back to his office. “Forget about it. I have things to do.”

“Moping doesn’t really suit you, Wonder Boy.”

“What do you want me to do, House? You want me to say I learned something from the experience? Want me to talk to your patient and tell him how much I regret having the extra time?” He moved on into his office, hearing rather than seeing House follow him inside. 

“If you wanted to, that would certainly help move things along, but –“

“House.” Wilson’s voice was sharp, and he fixed his eyes on the papers on his desk. He let out a long breath. “Just go. Please.”

House narrowed his eyes and Wilson could see him visibly debating whether or not to push the subject. He glanced around the office, nodded once as though to confirm his decision, and left. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Wilson alone. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, willing his heart to stop beating at marathon pace.

\----

House looked over his shoulder, inspecting the wound the best he could in his bathroom mirror. The phone went to voicemail, again. He clicked redial, this time putting it on speakerphone to ring on the counter while he reached around and probed tentatively at the gash. He wasn’t sure Wilson would answer after the morning’s argument.

“House?” The oncologist’s voice was heavy with sleep.

“No, I’m the man who stole his phone,” he retorted. “Listen, uh.” He sighed. “I need you to come get me.” Silence answered him. He grabbed the already bloody kitchen towel he’d grabbed in a hurry and tried to turn his head far enough to get a better look at the cut.

“Are you.. where are you?”

“At home.”

“I’m sorry, why?”

“Well, that’s where most respectable people are at this hour.” He made his way back into the living room, sitting down on the couch. “Maybe that rules me out, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” The cut ran down the back of his arm between shoulder and elbow, and entirely awkward and tender spot, but he found that he could lean back against the couch to put pressure on the rag without having to hold it there. Sitting eased the lightheadedness, and not having to hold his arm up was heavenly.

“If you’re at home, I’m not sure why we’re even talking. I’m not taking you anywhere. You have a bike. Goodnigh-“

“I fell.” House swallowed, the words feeling thick in his mouth. He hated admitting that he needed help. It was Wilson’s fault he was in this predicament, anyway. 

Okay. Maybe the alcohol contributed a little - or maybe a lot - but that was completely beside the point.

Wilson sighed. “I’ll be over as soon as I put pants on.”

House closed the phone and leaned back against the couch. He glanced around the living room at the almost empty bottle and abandoned dinner. For a moment he felt the urge to tidy up, then tossed the idea. That was the 90 proof talking, no doubt, because only alcohol made him care all the way to a subconscious level.

Alcohol and Wilson.

It really was Wilson’s fault, technically. If he hadn’t been so butthurt over something he wasn’t supposed to hear, well, House wouldn’t have felt so bad. He wouldn’t have followed Wilson into his office, noted the abandoned coffee on his friend’s desk next to the calendar. Wouldn’t have seen the big purple circle. _That damn purple._ It flashed like a car indicator light going off repeatedly in House’s brain, reminding him exactly how insensitive he was to the one friend he could actually count on, reminding him of Amber and how good she’d been for Wilson and damn if House didn’t miss her just a little bit – because in the end, she was good for Wilson. Maybe better for Wilson than he was, and that’s all he really wanted. The best for Wilson. 

House was somewhere halfway between drunk sleep and real sleep when the door rattled. A pause, then the key in the lock, and there was Wilson. 

“Took your time,” House said, although a glance at the clock told him Wilson had to have broken the speed limit to arrive as fast as he had.

“Stopped and got icecream on the way,” the oncologist said, oozing sarcasm. House followed Wilson’s gaze from the kitchen where a broken bowl and a pool of milk remained on the floor, on to the coffee table and what wasn’t left of the alcohol before finally landing on House and the state he was in. House felt the dark eyes take him in – dried blood on his arm, side, even his boxers. If House had been anyone other than himself, he figured he’d have the decency to feel exposed. All he felt was relief.

“I’m not even sure I want to know.”

“Honestly, a Maker’s Mark enema sounded fun to me, but the hooker changed her mind when she realized what that meant.” He shrugged, wincing as the bloody rag dragged his arm.

“Jesus.”

“Unfortunately, no. I’m just Gregory House. Thanks for putting me on the pedestal, though.”

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting his eyes shut. “Being friends with you is like...” He shook his head. “It’s like being friends with a six-year-old.” He opened his eyes. “Who drinks.”

“My vocabulary is considerably larger than a six year olds, though.”

Wilson ignored him. He gestured for House to move. “Let me see.”

House grabbed the towel to keep it from falling as he sat up, turning his back to his friend. Wilson sat sideways behind him, replacing House’s hand on the towel, fingers brushing as the diagnostician relinquished his grip. If Wilson noticed the goosebumps, he didn’t say anything.

“I’m going to assume this has been on longer than ten minutes?”

“Yes.”

Wilson pulled the edges of the towel away, hissing in sympathy as the gash was revealed. Fingers gently prodded at the skin, soft and careful.

“Actually, I do want to know. What happened?”

House debated. _I felt like shit, but I wasn’t going to apologize because you didn’t want to hear it and wouldn’t believe me anyway, and I don’t have any other friends to get drunk with. Not my fault there’s nobody else to supervise me._

“Drunk me wanted to mix cereal and whiskey and, well.” He gestured to the kitchen. “Figure it out.”

“It’s still bleeding. You’re going to need stitches.”

“Duh.”

“I can do it at the hospital.”

House looked down at his boxers, then up at Wilson. “I feel underdressed. Should I change?”

The oncologist fixed him with a look that wanted to but couldn’t quite reach irritation. He looked like a boy, House noted, bedhead and college hoodie knocking his age back a few years. Wilson grabbed House’s hand and placed it back over the towel. Goosebumps, again. Maybe he was more drunk than he thought. Wilson rose and disappeared, coming back with a pair of jeans and a zip up jacket.

“Easier to put on, easier to take off.” He handed the clothes to House. “Did you hit your head?”

“Not really.”

“You did or you didn’t. There’s not really a gray area with that one.”

House stood. “Not hard enough to rattle anything. Don’t worry. I’m fine.” 

Wilson, predictably, didn’t take that as an answer, reaching for House’s head. He probed through the hair, feeling for anything concerning. He was tentative, unsure, almost – the thought crossed House’s mind that this might be the most physical contact he’d made with anyone since Amber had died. The fist in his stomach flared again. Or maybe that was the alcohol.

Wilson rose, and House started to dress, albeit clumsily. Wilson left him to it, making his way into the kitchen and gingerly picking up the remains of the broken bowl. He dropped a rag over the milk and pushed it around with his shoe, mopping the liquid up before grabbing a broom and making a quick sweep of the room.

“You sure you didn’t come in a pumpkin carriage, Cinderella?”

“Bad analogy. That makes you Prince Charming.”

“Don’t even think about leaving a shoe behind. I’m not that desperate.”

\----

After a brief explanation to the woman behind the ER desk, Wilson deposited House to sit on an empty bed and got to work on sutures. After injecting local anesthetic, he pinched the edges of the gash together, closing the crevasse of blood and flesh and starting the first stitch. House could feel Wilson standing behind him, heat emanating from the oncologist. Something about his presence stilled House. Sitting still was not a strong point for him, but he seemed to cool off around Wilson. He felt as relaxed as he could get without Vicodin or sex. The need to be moving, evading, to distract and busy himself – that all faded into the background. He didn’t feel like he was under scrutiny when he was around Wilson.

A little boy two beds down watched them with interest. A young, blonde woman sat in the chair next to him, looking completely exhausted and half asleep.

“What happened to you, Mister?”

House cocked his head to the side with a devil-may-care look. “I didn’t eat my veggies.”

The boy frowned. “You’re patronizing.”

Wilson paused, hand hovering over House’s arm. 

“You’re annoying,” House replied.

“I’m a kid.” It was matter of fact, yet a slight hint of banter tinged the statement.

“No rule against calling kids annoying.”

His mother put a hand on her son’s knee. “Leave it alone, Mike.” She met House’s eyes. “Sorry. He’s... inquisitive.”

House nodded in the boy’s direction. “Your curiosity cause that?”

The boy looked down at his knee which was neatly propped on a pillow, topped with a bag of ice.

“You wouldn’t understand. It was for science.”

“Oh, I understand. I’m a doctor. Let me tell you,” House replied, whispering conspiratorially, “it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” 

“You mean that’s why you’re in the emergency room at three o’clock in the morning, kind of drunk, getting stitches?”

Wilson laughed. “Wow. Did you have a kid I don’t know about?”

The boys mother started to interrupt, but House spoke first. “I’m not drunk.”

“Your shoes aren’t tied. Probably makes you nauseous to bend over.”

In unison, House and Wilson glanced at the diagnostician’s shoes. The laces indeed hung loosely beside the sneakers.

“I hurt too much to tie them.”

“Your pants are zipped and buttoned. Jacket, too.”

“Maybe I had help,” House suggested. The boy narrowed his eyes, thinking.

A raised hand pointed at Wilson. “He your boyfriend then?” 

“Mike!”

It took Wilson a second to react, not realizing at first that he’d been the one in question. He scoffed. “I’m not-“

“We’re married, actually. And I’m not drunk. He’s just negligent. Didn’t tie my shoes when he zipped my pants.”

“House.”

The diagnostician looked up at Wilson. “Yes honey?”

“We’re not – “ Wilson waved his hand, suture needle punctuating his movements. “I’m not – I mean –“

“You’re not together.”

House sighed. “Um. Just said we are.”

“If he cared enough to dress you, he would’ve tied them.” The boy shrugged. “Which means you dressed you. Which means you don’t have the coordination to tie your own shoes.”

House directed his attention to the mother. “Are you willing to overlook child labor laws? I suddenly have a job opening.”

She rubbed her temples and shook her head in disbelief. Wilson gave her what he hoped was interpreted as an encouraging, empathetic smile.

They lapsed into silence. As he wrapped up the suturing and wiped the traces of blood away, Wilson noted the tense muscles in his friend’s back where the hoodie hung loosely. House hadn’t budged, hadn’t popped a pill. He sat, shoulders and back partially exposed, skin pale under the fluorescent hospital lighting. “Nine,” he announced. 

“Damn. I like even numbers best.”

Wilson put a piece of gauze over the area, taping the edges down. Nine sutures. Three freckles. One little scar, there, near House’s elbow. Without thinking, Wilson ran his thumb over it briefly, the short raised tissue almost indiscernible under the material of his glove. Even with the barrier, he could feel the smoothness of House’s skin. A wave of sadness washed over him as he realized his fascination was probably due to lack of contact, immediately replaced by a feeling of relief. It wasn’t half as bad as he’d expected it to be. Sure, it wasn’t romantic touch – it would take a lot longer for him to adjust to that idea – but it was still touch, and he did it, and he didn’t feel completely horrible. It was almost nice, if he were honest. Safe. He swiped at the tape once more, then withdrew, pulling the gloves off and leaving the moment behind him before he could think too much more about it. 

Across the room, the boy’s mother excused herself to the bathroom. A tech came to fit a brace to the injured knee. 

“Hurt much?”

The boy looked up at House’s question. He shrugged. “It did at first. Pain meds and all. You know.”

House shook his head. “Never had ‘em. Must be a rough life.”

The boy glanced at Wilson, then back to House. “You’re friends, though, right?”

House looked at Wilson. “Well, Dr. Wilson. Are we friends?” _Forgive me?_

The oncologist studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Although it often feels like a social experiment, yes. We’re friends.”

The boy nodded, a half grin playing across his face. “For science.”

House laughed. “For science.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say for myself. Enjoy!


	3. Seeing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the reviews! They really keep me going!  
> So, minor (major? Necessary?) canon divergence here on out. Sorry not sorry. Since the first time I watched this episode, I knew it had to be rewritten. No, I don’t totally hate Cuddy/House, or Sam/Wilson. I just _love _House/Wilson.. Duh.__

The two oblong pills were a stark contrast against his dirt covered hand, a white lie – deceitfully pure looking, perfect in formation, with no outward signs of the havoc they could create if he chose to partake in their game.

That night’s events played over in his mind like a slideshow on loop. The creamy skin of Cuddy’s back before the scrub top descended, her dark eyes avoiding his when Lucas was brought up. 

Helicopter lights illuminated the wreckage, shades of red surrounding him from all sides: emergency lights flashing as ambulances pulled in, blood dripping down foreheads, crimson rust color staining clothes, an abandoned red sock lying on the gravel.

Dust, if dust could be a color all of it’s own, covered everything in sight. When he called Wilson, House could practically hear the dust floating around the emergency room.

Then, grief. Some would argue you couldn’t see grief, but he knew better. He’d seen it. Hanna’s whole process had been one of grief, grief he had felt and related to on an emotional level. If she’d lived, she’d have made it through. She went through all the stages down there with him – the denial, the panic and the anger, bargaining for her leg, for herself – then the depression, the acceptance of the situation when he exposed his vulnerability to her. If she’d have made it, House knew Hanna would have hit the acceptance stage before anybody had time to blink. But they’d amputated; he could still see the blood flow as he made the first push with the scalpel, the bone dust on his gloves when he’d finished sawing through the leg. They’d amputated, and now she was dead, and he was left with both legs – a fact that had seemingly anchored him inside a whirlpool of the first four grief stages for the foreseeable future. 

_The future. Ha. _He’d seen the future, staring back at him in his bathroom mirror, and he was terrified of it. House had stood, staring at the shattered mirror, his image reflected back to him in broken shards, kaleidoscoping his features into someone more befitting the way he felt.__

__He’d turned to the hole in the wall and eyed it warily. _Perfect. _His narcotic nest egg, the epitome of negative habituation, and all he wanted.___ _

_____No. _Not all he wanted. All he could turn to, now.__ _ _ _ _

______Cuddy mistook him. Sure, he was interested. She filled a void, safely. He loved her, even. House rolled the thought around in his head, sliding to the bathroom floor in obedience to another shooting cramp in his leg. He decided it was true; he loved her, as a friend. She was someone safe he could be vulnerable with, were he driven to it. Sex would have just been a bonus. She was hot, after all. He did hate Lucas, in the way you can only hate someone you kind-of-almost-never-quite respect. Any self respecting person could see that Cuddy and Lucas were like oil and water. He was just tired of waiting on her to realize it. He needed her sometimes, and she was too preoccupied trying to put together an impossible combination._ _ _ _ _ _

______Then there was Wilson. Cuddy’s words from earlier that night rang in stereo. She was moving on, Wilson was moving on, and House had nothing._ _ _ _ _ _

______That had hurt._ _ _ _ _ _

______Sure, it was true. Or, true to the extent that she _thought _it was true. While Cuddy could possibly make things work long-term with Lucas on false pretenses and wobbly foundations, Wilson never would. Therein lay the true driving factor that had brought him to this moment – to keep what little threads of friendship he had with either of them, House had to act like he believed in them more than he did. Had to pretend to be nice to Sam, to get used to the idea of Lucas. He had to pretend not to be sad when they couldn’t be reached because they were busy playing life with characters that, sooner or later, were going away. It was all a giant game, and he’d anticipated it down to this moment; the stash of Vicodin proving him right in all his predictions. It wasn’t self-fulfilling prophecy if it wasn’t about him, he decided.___ _ _ _ _ _

________Was it about him? Or them? Or the girl he’d failed to save? He shook his head, eyes watering with the movement. He didn’t know anymore._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________A motion in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Neat shoes. Nice pants. If he looked up further, House was sure he’d see a button up, probably folded to the forearms in the way that made women swoon, topped by the head of his sensible, boyish best friend._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Here to stop me?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Wilson made his way in to the bathroom and slid down onto the floor across from House, stretching his legs out in front of him, entering House’s space bubble far enough that their legs were brushing. There were droplets of blood on the material just above Wilson’s knee, and House had to resist the urge to reach out and feel if they would smear._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I’m just here.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________House didn’t know what to say to that, so he joked. As one does. “How’d you get past the bouncer?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Pre-paid.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Responsible of you. How many card punches do you have to get before you score free admission to a major motion meltdown?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Wilson didn’t answer._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________House turned his eyes on his own hand, balling it into a fist and pressing it against his leg to hide the shaking. The pills pushed suggestively against his curled palm, remind him of their presence and practically begging for attention._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I’m going to take them,” House said._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Please don’t, if not for yourself, for me.” Wilson’s voice was low, pained. House glanced up at him. Wilson’s eyes were red. The oncologist shook his head. “I.. care for you, House. In more ways than you will ever be able to comprehend, and with more complications than I can possibly work through in my own head. I just... I need you.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I’d still be here.” House knew it wasn’t true, that the words were a weak objection._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“No. You wouldn’t. Your shell would be. What the Vicodin leaves behind. That you – that version of you scares me.” His voice shook. “It scares the hell out of me.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________House frowned. Wilson sighed, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Because you don’t care back, then. You have an agenda that’s purely about yourself, and everyone around you falls prey to it. I care too much to leave, but...” Wilson shook his head, meeting House’s eyes. “I’m afraid you will.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________House absorbed the information in silence. A wave of emotions he couldn’t quite identify washed over him and with it a surge of heat. Heat crawled up his neck, to his cheeks. The leather jacket he still wore was suddenly suffocating. House struggled to get up, grasping at the tub and pulling back when he met a shard of mirror. Wilson’s hand extended to him, the oncologist standing just in front of him. House took it, and Wilson pulled him up, steady on his feet as House rocked against him. He took a step back, giving them space, but Wilson didn’t release his grip on House’s wrist._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I won’t leave.” House met his friend’s eyes, hoping Wilson could see the question there. “I just need you to see me.” He wasn’t even sure what that meant, but he meant it with his whole being._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I see you, House. I’m not going anywhere.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________House felt Wilson’s fingers slip around his, loosening his grip. House let the pill bottle go, and slowly raised his other hand, uncurling the fingers from the pills and holding them up as though in offering._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________ _ _ _ _ _ _

________\---_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Wilson felt a weight lift from his body like a blanket had been thrown off. He nodded, relief flooding his system. Suddenly aware that he was still holding House’s wrist, he let go, flushing self consciously._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Come on.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________House was filthy. Wilson led the way into the bedroom, trusting House would follow. He turned to face the diagnostician, taking him in fully for the first time since he’d entered the apartment. Blood coated the neck of House’s shirt, soaking through the bandage. Dust coated what the blood didn’t, a fine layer of grit sticking to the sheen of sweat on House’s skin._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Off with them,” Wilson said. He gestured vaguely, and left to grab a wash cloth. When he returned, House was wincing his way out of his jacket. Wilson grabbed the neck and slid it the rest of the way off._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Something unsaid passed between them, and Wilson helped House tug his shirt over his head. House paused. Wilson gave him a questioning look._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Pants, too. They’re filthy.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Why, Doctor Wilson. Are you trying to get me naked?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I’ve seen you naked, House. It’s nothing new.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Ouch.” He moved to unbutton his pants, and Wilson watched from the corner of his eye, gathering the discarded clothing. He saw the hesitation in his friend’s hands, the way they hovered over the waistband as he willed himself to strip them off. Wilson knew it was the scar giving him pause, and didn’t prompt. Years of being House’s friend had taught him that leaving the man alone until he was good and ready proved the simplest way to get anything done._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________With a harsh exhale, House dropped his pants, stepping out of them crookedly, compensating for his leg. Wilson grabbed them and added them to the pile of dirty clothes before setting it all in the hallway to be washed. _Or thrown away, _he noted, glancing at the ruined shirt.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________House was sitting when Wilson reentered. Wilson bent over the wound, inspecting it._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“How do I know I’m not making you up?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Wilson squinted. “I’m not a hallucination. If you’re hallucinating, I’m hallucinating.” He brushed the rag gently across the wound, clearing grime as he went._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Hey! Ouch!” House flinched away, but not far – sitting on the edge of the bed didn’t give him much in the way of escaping. Wilson winced._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Sorry.” He continued, gentler this time, using the corner of a rag to get the remainder of dirt from the sutures. They were straight, fairly neat, but obviously rushed. The thought almost irritated him. He could’ve done better._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Without thought, Wilson moved on to the dirt clinging to House’s neck. The diagnostician’s eyes were closed. The Adam’s apple in House’s neck bobbed as he swallowed, and Wilson found himself studying the man before him. His brows were furrowed, a muscle in his jaw clenching and unclenching. House reached to rub his leg and the muscle in his shoulder rippled with movement._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Hurting?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________House’s eyes fluttered open, exhaustion and grief and - _suspicion? _\- darkening his typical bright blue.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Did Cuddy send you?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Wilson’s hands fell to his side, away from where they’d been gingerly probing at a shallow cut on House’s throat._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“No.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Foreman?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Again, no.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“You sure you’re not a just a figment of my colorful imagination?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Why is it so hard to believe that I’m genuinely here, trying to take care of you?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Hallucinations can be pretty believ-“_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Wilson had heard enough, his exasperation suddenly through the roof. He leaned down, bracing his hands on either of House's legs, and kissed him square on the mouth, hard and commanding, surprising even himself. Wilson's fingertips rested, feather-light, on the scar tissue of House's thigh. He pulled away, the moment feeling like a nano-second and a lifetime simultaneously. The diagnostician’s mouth hung open slightly, eyes suddenly wide and alert. A flood of satisfaction at leaving House speechless hit his system, followed by the realization of what he’d just done._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“House, I-“ Wilson started to apologize, scalp prickling with embarrassment._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Wilson watched the corner of House’s mouth turned up ever so slightly. “ _Definitely _a hallucination.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


End file.
